


The Only Shape I'd Pray To

by burningveins



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, beyond that it's pretty lose lmao, but set more in the asoiaf universe, catelyn is demeter, inspired by hades/persephone, jon is hades, ned is like a zeus type character, sansa is goddess of spring
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-02
Updated: 2018-02-14
Packaged: 2019-02-26 14:48:45
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,015
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13238004
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/burningveins/pseuds/burningveins
Summary: "Last year I abstained, this year I devour." - Margaret AtwoodHer mother would whisper in her ear some nights when she was a child, tales of the North. She would breathe terrible words about the angry cold, about ground icy and sharp enough to cut if you slipped. She would tell her about the wind that ripped and tore and howled like starving wolves into a night that never ended. She would speak in a low and solemn voice about the Northern bones, once people; they moved through their death with gaunt skin pulled tight against their faces and bodies.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Characters & Pairings: Jon Snow, Sansa Stark, Catelyn Stark, Cersei Lannister; Jon/Sansa
> 
> Warnings: Somewhat graphic descriptions of body horror/violence.
> 
> Disclaimer: The title is from the song Jezebel by Iron & Wine.
> 
> Notes: Loosely based around the myth of Hades & Persephone, but it ends up being a sort of mash up of elements of greek mythology and pieces of narrative/themes from ASOIAF. Endless thanks to Ari (TheEagleGirl) for betaing this for me and just generally encouraging me, I love you more than life.

Her mother would whisper in her ear some nights when she was a child, tales of the North. She would breathe terrible words about the angry cold, about ground icy and sharp enough to cut if you slipped. She would tell her about the wind that ripped and tore and howled like starving wolves into a night that never ended. She would speak in a low and solemn voice about the Northern bones, once people; they moved through their death with gaunt skin pulled tight against their faces and bodies. 

“The North is where the dead go to die,” she would say with frightened eyes, pleading for her daughter to listen.

Sansa did not know why her mother fretted so. She was a dutiful and well behaved daughter, everyone said as much. She performed each of her tasks with a skilled hand. Each morning she would sprinkle the morning dew on the grass and flowers, wander the woods and watch the animals, going about their days. She would sing and smile softly as she worked, often weaving the forest growth together to create long dress that trailed behind her in the woods, leaving paths of wildflowers in her wake.

She knew that her father Eddard had bared many children, such was his duty, but her mother was his true wife. Though Catelyn knew that he did what he must, she despised all his other children. Only one son of his had been born with divine blood, but he was illegitimate and so had been cast up to the North to guard the dead, the most unsavoury of all the gods’ duties. She knew this must be the source of her mother’s disdain; she held a special hatred for Jon, saying that he did not belong amongst the gods.

Sansa loved her mother more than anything in the world, and she believed her words about the North to be true. Nonetheless, she could never bring herself to feel the fear that her mother hoped to instill. Even more, she was almost curious of this terrible land her mother spoke of. 

She loved her home. She loved the trees and the animals and the flowers. She loved how far removed they were from the politics of the godly court, alive in their own magical kingdom. Still, she was often lonesome. She grew the mortal people’s crops and raised tall oak trees on their lands. She smiled as she watched them play with their babes in the fields and laughed in glee with the children as they played gods and monsters, wielding wooden swords. 

She lived beside the people but she did not live with them. They could doubtless feel her presence, but they could not see her or speak to her. Rarely did she hear her own name spoken aloud. When they referred to her they would call her “maiden” or “daughter of spring.” Only when her mother called out for her to return home would she hear “Sansa,” the name that held her power. She loved the mortals and she worked hard to keep them happy, but they would never pray to her.

-

As she grew older her isolation only strengthened. At night she dreamt of snow so heavy it blinded her, mountains that stood tens of thousands of feet tall, and figures moving through a suffocating darkness. The places changed, but each time she saw the same white wolf, larger than any wolf she’d ever seen in her own forest. It had eyes that glowed a deep red and their weight burned right through her chest, the only heat in an ocean of cold.

She would wake up shaking and covered in sweat with her heartbeat tapping a violent rhythm against her ribcage, the wolf’s eyes still visible behind her eyelids. Many of the gods had castles in their realms but Sansa and her mother slept on the forest floor. When she jolted up there would be pine needles in her hair and small pebbles stuck to the side of her face but her hands still felt like they were skating on sharp ice and her skin looked almost blue, even on her warm bed of moss.

Her mother would question her about her nightmares each morning, eyes anxious and full of concern. Sansa told the same lie every time; it would slide off her tongue before she could stop it.

“No mother, I cannot remember what I dreamt.”

A tight coil formed in her stomach as she saw the lines form on her mother’s forehead and the sides of her mouth turn down in worry. It pained her to lie but some part of her deep down feared her mother’s response even more. Catelyn, goddess of life, would near drop dead in fear. She would go to Sansa’s father demanding answers from him and his bastard. The truth was, though, while the wastelands were cold and painful, she was never afraid.

Something about the dark and the cold, interrupted by a single set of red eyes, gave her a feeling of calm. The way the wolf looked at her was almost a silent understanding. She saw him as he saw her. The wolf was fierce, strong, and wild, yes--but also lonely. One living thing amongst the dead, just as she sometimes felt one dead thing walking amongst the living. She held it at her fingertips, this power that was her birthright, and she loved the life she saw around her more than anything, but she often felt out of place. 

She saw the children laughing and playing in the streets and her heart ached, for she had no one to make her laugh. She saw the sparrows diving and coasting on gusts of wind and her feet felt heavy, as if they were roots of a great tree and she were growing down into the ground. She felt like a friendless child, like bird beating its wings against the bars of a cage.

When she met the wolf in the snow they were surrounded by death, true enough, but they were alive together. 

-

It was many moons after the dreams had begun and she nearly settled into them. She came into waking softly, no more jolts or pangs. At first she saw the wolf eyes in the reds of the poppies and the line of sunset just above the horizon, but as time went on her dreams melted over her waking hours like wax dripping down the sides of a candle. 

She would sit shivering in the sunlight for hours trying desperately to chase the cold from her bones to no avail. Her bare feet grew heavy and clumsy, sometimes turning black on the bottoms and toes, stinging when she walked on the forest floor. She felt hunger for the first time in her life, a hunger that never ended no matter what she ate, and before long she was able to see her ribs through her pale skin. Her muscles grew endlessly tired and she slept often. When she slept she saw her wolf. He looked different now though, sad and almost afraid, and she didn’t feel comforted as she once had. She was not afraid of her wolf, but when she looked into his eyes he seemed as though he was trying to warn her of something just behind her shoulder.

Sansa withdrew from her mother, hardly ever coming when she called through the trees. Her bones felt heavy beneath her skin and her feet hurt too badly to walk too far or perform her daily tasks. Often she would see spots of darkness moving in woods around her, a darting figure that she could never make out, always just in her peripheral vision, gone by the time she turned her head. When she wandered, she found herself moving into a part of the woods she had rarely traveled before. It was far from her people and her mother, so far that the animals here were more wolf than rabbit, and the trees tall evergreens and pines which cast dark shadows on the forest floor, tilted as if they were under tremendous strain.

A sickness had taken root somewhere deep in her gut, she knew, though she understood not how or why. She felt almost in a haze, stumbling through the forest. Her fingertips felt cold and dead and she bit down on her bottom lip in pain. She knew that her magic was going out, fading along with the rest of her, and somehow that hurt more than anything else.

She staggered into one of the tall tree trunks. There was a small bird nest on one of the low hanging branches and she could see three robin eggs tucked into the tightly woven insulation. Even in her state she was struck by the beauty of the three little eggs, the promise of life not yet lived. Instinctively she reached for one, meaning to stroke it into hatching, one of her many responsibilities when she walked alongside her mother. As soon as she touched the egg a sinister jolt ran through her.

Instead of hatching, the baby bird fell out of its eggshell, still wet and very dead. Sansa moved backwards in a panic, tears springing to her eyes and heavy feet stumbling backwards until she tripped on the root of a tree and hit the ground with a painful jolt. She slowly raised her head and felt something awful inside her began to twist and shudder. 

Beneath her hands the green grass had begun to wither, turning brown and brittle beneath her fingertips. The darkness moved out from around her in all directions, ruining patches of wildflowers and small animals in its path. Even the trees around her began to dull in color, their needles falling and raining down in her soft red hair, letting in the punishing sunlight. She must make quite a sight, a pale girl with hair that burned, clothed in a dress of dead flowers and sobbing into her hands as she painted a valley of death. _I’m a plague of a girl,_ she thought in unspeakable despair, _I’m pestilence made flesh and bone_. 

Suddenly the pain was too much for her to bare and she let out an awful shriek. Even her own ears rang with its strength. A wolf howl, long and angry and sad. A single note that rooted itself into the trees and the ground the animal’s tiny bones and suddenly everything was green and moving again, as if nothing had ever happened. She saw the little robin in its nest crying for its mother, and then she saw nothing at all.

-

Sansa awoke to the brush of a rough hand across her cheek. It was the ghost of a touch and she would have thought she imagined it if she didn’t see him there. He crouched over her where she lay on the pine needles and stones. His hair was dark and wild; his eyes were a dark grey with the smallest flecks of red; his clothes were thick and heavy. 

She gazed up at him in confusion and wonder. 

“Are you my wolf?” she whispered softly. His eyes widened in surprise and he pulled back. Sansa slowly pushed herself upwards. “I dreamt of you.”

Instinctively she reached her hand out, meaning to touch his face as he’d touched hers, but he jerked away from her touch like a startled animal. _He looks every bit a wild thing,_ she thought. She was wild too though, wasn’t she? She had learned long ago how to tame beasts.

She stilled, looking into his eyes, neither of them moving. They were her wolf’s eyes, she was sure of it now. He was the first person she’d ever spoken to, besides her mother. The first person to even see her in her true form.

She tried to push herself up but her legs gave out and she fell to the ground. Again, she made to raise herself but her body would not obey her, her limbs heavy and useless. The second time she fell she felt a sharp burst of pain and cried out. She realized with a jolt of horror that she’d been hurt. Her legs, arms and stomach were covered with gashes, some shallow and some deeper. There were bruises littering her sallow skin and she noticed with a flash of embarrassment that her dress of flowers had disintegrated, leaving her bare and naked and putting her pain in full view. 

Initially she was confused at the source of her injuries but her unspoken question was answered within a matter of moments when the grass around her began to turn brown. The rest of the area followed suit, a near perfect repetition of before. She let out a loud shriek when a tree branch crashed down beside her. The falling debris must have rained on her as she slept, causing the ache that now resonating through her whole body, and left the ground beneath her stained with blood.

Strong arms were suddenly beneath her and she felt herself lifted up and carried away from the circle of dying things. Over a dark shoulder she saw the cycle repeat several more times. This spot of forest was caught in a purgatorian cycle, she realized with a detached horror, stuck between life and death.


	2. Chapter 2

The further they went, the colder she became. The wolf’s hands were trying to touch as little of her as possible, holding her slightly away from his body and looking straight ahead. She felt something wet fall on her forehead, and saw with a shock that it was snow. North, she realized. He was taking her North.

She knew that she should say something, protest, demand that he bring her back to her mother, but she was aching and cold and afraid and he was warm and steady. Before she knew what was happening she’d slipped back into the darkness.  
-

Sansa stumbled into waking. It was the first dreamless sleep she’d had in months, and it felt odd to wake up slowly. She was in a bed, not one made of moss and grass. She’d been dressed in a man’s linen tunic, and it fell loosely around her form and was covered in a large pile of furs.

She pushed herself to her elbows, overwhelmed by the foreignness of her surroundings. Her eyes focused on a hunched form in the corner of the room. He was sitting in a chair, elbows on knees, hands clasped together, head bowed, and eyes on her. His body was rigid, but he raised his head to meet her gaze.

“Sansa,” he said simply. His voice was rough from lack of use. She didn’t think the bones of North did much talking. The sound of the word uttered in his tone sent an unexpected jolt of pleasure through her, her nerves buzzed and her heartbeat quickened. Power, she realized; she felt power.

“You know my name,” she observed. 

His look was vaguely incredulous. “Of course I do. You’re Catelyn’s daughter. Eddard’s only trueborn child. You’re a goddess of life.”

“How did you find me?” speaking to him was strange. She didn’t quite know to talk to somebody who she knew nothing about, who knew nothing about her.

“I saw you,” he said. “I saw you in my sleep.”

“What’s happened to us?” she whispered.

“I don’t know,” he replied softly. His gaze darkened, “I shouldn’t brought you here.”

The words sent an unexpected sting through her. “I would’ve died,” she said quietly. She didn’t know what else she could say.

“I’ve trapped you.”

Suddenly he stood and walked towards the door. “Jon,” she spoke out and he stopped dead in his tracks. She could almost feel the physicality of the words as they traveled across the room and hit him in the same way his voice had hit her. “I wasn’t free.”

He did not respond but he paused another moment before he left the room. Sansa exhaled upon his exit, her face sinking into her cupped hands and her chest heaving in a single sob. What am I going to do? She thought, wishing for a response, any response, but no one answered.

-  
She healed quickly. Her body still ached and stung but Jon had treated it well, bandaging it and sewing her skin together where it had ripped. The idea of his hands on her in her sleep turned her cheeks red. In any other instance she would have felt violated at the idea of being touched while she slept but something about the way he watched her, the way he’d held her made her think he wouldn’t have done anything he didn’t have to. With a jolt she realized that she trusted him. 

Jon did not return again, but she found that he did not need to. The hunger which had gnawed at her stomach for so long had disappeared and the fires that burned in her chambers never seemed to go out. The days here were short and the sun only shone for a few hours. The nights were long and she could hear Jon out in the darkness, his howl in harmony with the scream of the wind and the trees. 

It was several days before she found the courage to leave her room. She only wore the tattered shirt that must have been his. After this understanding she’d impulsively raised it to her face and smelled it, blushing furiously when she realized her actions. It smelled like pine and snow and the smallest amount like sweat. She felt like a thief, learning things she had no right to know, and tried clear the thoughts from her mind before placing her feet on the cool stone floor.

The castle was called Winterfell, and it was granted to whoever worked to guard the North. Too beautiful name for such a lonely place, Sansa thought. She supposed that the size must be to compensate for the distasteful nature of the job, but the stone hallways and large courtyards only made her sad. One person shouldn’t have to live in such a place all alone. 

She came to rest against a balcony overlooking the exterior of the castle. The sun was just starting to setting over the horizon and the sky was the lightest shade of pink. There was a soft fog that settled over the deep evergreen forest. The landscape was the loveliest thing Sansa have ever seen. She thought back to her mother’s harsh warnings about Northern terrors and for a moment, she thought her mother had never been more wrong. 

Just then, a dark figure came stumbling out of the woods. Sansa let out a sharp gasp when she realized what it was. The thing had clearly been a person once, but it was not a person any longer. It’s skin was tight, and somehow even whiter than a corpse. It moved quickly but without coordination. She watched in horror as it moved through the soft snowfall. Suddenly it stopped, and as if it sensed her watching it, turned sharply to meet her gaze. It’s eyes were blue, and so cold that she felt all the chill of North at once.

Sansa stumbled back in shock, her back hitting something solid. When she spun around she lost her balance but before she could fall there were hands on her arms, steadying her and restoring her balance. Jon’s brow was furrowed in concern and was she was immediately embarrassed by her reaction. Who was she to be afraid of the horrors he faced every day?

“You shouldn’t be out here wearing that,” he said, nodding at the loose tunic. “You’ll get frostbite.” 

It wouldn’t be the first time, Sansa thought, remembering when her toes turned black and hurt so badly it had brought tears to her eyes when she walked. Though, he need not know about that.

“Do you have anything I can use to make a dress?” she asked.

He broke eye contact with her and nodded awkwardly before turning away and walking back inside. He led her down to the Great Hall, promising to return with fabrics. Sansa sat at one of the wood benches and observed the room. She was again struck by the castle, its vastness and its emptiness. 

True to his word, Jon returned with a pile of linens, silks and furs in his arms. Sansa frowned as he set them on the table and moved to sit across from her.

“I would hate to put you out,” she said, eyeing the heap of fabric on table.

Jon laughed bitterly. “These aren’t mine,” he said, “They’re from the other chambers.”

Sansa was more confused than ever. “Are more people meant to be there?” she said, as far as she knew, Warden of the North was a one person job.

“No,” Jon said shortly, “And they do not wish me to forget it.”

A rush of realization came over her as she remembered the hollow feeling of the hallways. They meant to mock him. “Did my father do this?” she asked quietly.

“No, I don’t believe so,” he said, “But he isn’t the only one with power. This is a bastard’s job, and there are many people who are angry that it stands as even that.”

Sansa thought of the hot rage of her mother, a soft and gentle woman, and imagined there were many with an anger that ran far deeper. He was looking down at his hands and she took the moment to study his face. There was a deep loneliness in his eyes that washed over her like an ocean, a wave of sadness crashing against her painfully. 

In a instant of impulse she reached forward and grabbed one of his hands that rested on the table. He looked up at her in surprise. “Not any longer,” she said softly, “Now it is my job as well.” 

She gave him a small smile and she could swear he almost smiled back. His hand was warm.

-

Afterwards, she began to see him more often. She’d sewed a long dress and fur cloak out of the materials he brought her, and wore it as she walked around the courtyards of the castle, sitting in the snow for the several hours of daylight. Sometimes he would sit with her. Neither of them quite knew what to say or how to act, so unused to another beside them. Most times they would simply sit in silence.

This day he said that he wanted to show her something. He led her to a grove of trees within the castle. They weren’t the tall pine and evergreen trees that grew outside the forest. They had the white bark of a birch tree, but the trunks were thick and strong, exploding into bursts of color at the top with leaves like those of a maple tree but instead of green they were a bright red, the color of the setting sun.

“It’s beautiful,” Sansa breathed, stepping further into the wood. 

“My father put it here,” he said. “He said that no one should live completely without life.”

“It seems so awful. For things to end this way,” she said, looking to the castle wall. “Life is so beautiful. It seems wrong for death to be so ugly.” 

Sansa sat at the base of the largest tree before turning her gaze to him. It was the last hours of dusk and her cheeks were red with the harsh cold despite her warm clothing. He came and sat beside her and she tried very hard not to move closer to him, because she was growing cold and she could feel the warmth coming off of him, even through his clothing. She wondered how he continued to be warm even after living in the cold for so long.

“Not always,” he spoke after a long silence. She looked over at him but his gaze was forwards. “Life can be ugly, people can be ugly, gods can be ugly. Death can be ugly too.” 

“You aren’t ugly,” she spoke resolutely, but she could not meet his eyes. 

Of course like all the gods he was beautiful, with his dark hair and wild eyes and strong jaw. Most gods were not beautiful in same way though, not all the way through. Though in her mind she understood that they scarcely knew each other, her chest became warm when he spoke. She felt as if there was a string tied to each of their ribs which never went slack or taut no matter the distance between them. 

She thought that in her heart she understood the truth of him. He was kind, not cruel, and that was worth quite a lot. It was the reason she and her mother did not live with her father. The gods were often petty and power hungry. Some simply like to cut things just so they could watch them bleed.

Jon gave a short bark of a laugh, as if he had read her thoughts. “I am not a god,” he said bitterly. Sansa’s brow furrowed in confusion.

“Your blood does not make you any less of a god,” she said. “I have seen gods do many things, I’ve seen them rise and fall. I’ve seen them create life and bring it to an end. Power does not depend upon your birthright. It’s decided by your actions.”

He looked at her, surprise written on his features. She was a little surprised too, but the moment she spoke the words she knew them to be true. 

“Maybe so,” he said, looking back to the ground. She knew that he wouldn’t accept the words, but his acknowledgement still gave her a feeling of warmth.

They sat at the tree until the sun sank below the mountains.

-

Sansa did not hate the North. She did not fear it as her mother had hoped that she would. But something dark had settled in her gut. Something that neither warm summer sunlight or brutal winter nights could cleanse her of. It was a hum in her sleep like a swarm of oncoming locusts that never let her rest.

Some nights she would dream her mother, tear stained with grief, and a mouth that released a howl of despair so lonely and wild she swore that it must be Jon hunting, the sounds of the waking world bleeding into her sleep. She would wake from those dreams screaming out in pain, a pain of absence in her chest, clutching the furs around her bed before raising her arms and sobbing into her hands.

Other nights she would dream of a throne made of bones. A human skull adorned the end of each armrest. The chair sat at the top of a steep rise of steps and on the throne sat a gigantic lioness. Her fur was golden and shone like sunshine on a field of wheat, but her mouth was stained red, and her eyes were full of hatred. Sansa stood barefoot, naked as her nameday, in the center of the dark room. It started as a wetness at her feet, but grew slowly, until it was at her waist, chest, and then above her head, sticky and thick and red. She drowned in an ocean of blood.

From these dreams she would wake not screaming, but coughing, in wild fits until she could hardly breathe. Jon was once walking past her room and heard her gasping inside. He burst through the door and she looked up at him, her eyes full of panic, quiet tears streaming down her face. He strode to her and pulled her hands away from her face, blanching when he realized that they were stained red. Sansa’s body spasmed and heaved and Jon hesitantly reached to place a hand on her back. This thumb rubbed small circles while the other came up to brush away her tears and tuck her hair behind her ear. He ordered her to breathe in a calm and soft voice, promising her that she was going to be alright. 

Eventually her breath evened and her sobs subsided. He stayed at his place on the bed for a time afterwards, looking at her with concern and confusion and awkwardly moved his hand up and down her back in what she assumed was an attempt to be comforting. She was exhausted and she longed the collapse against him but refrained. He was bent inwards towards her as well, and they hovered like that, resisting gravity.

“I am alright,” she said in a weak voice.

“Are you certain?” His gaze was unsure.

She nodded, trying to look confidant.

“I swear it.”

His eyes searched her face, staying for a time on her mouth. She saw his hand twitch in his lap before he gave her a sharp nod, stood quickly and strode from the room.

Even worse than her dreams of red, however, were her dreams of white. At first there was only darkness and a cold with teeth as sharp as a sword’s edge. Then she saw shapes moving, as if through a dense fog. Slowly other things came into to focus, snow drifts as tall as mountains, icicles that hung from branches and roofs. 

It reminded her of when she’d dreamt of the North, but it was not the same. There were people here. She could see them through their windows, looking into dwindling fires, their faces gaunt and hollow. No children played in the streets. No crops grew in the fields. Her horror swelled with every passing moment, each new realization. She always saw the woman last. The great golden lady stood proud and tall beside her. Her hair shone yellow, the only spot of color in the endless white. Her smile was even colder than the winter winds that blew through Sansa’s hair. 

She leaned down to Sansa’s ear and whispered soft and low, “A night that never ends. How would you like that little dawnbreaker?” 

She awoke freezing, drenched in sweat, and paralyzed with fear.


End file.
